Johan crested the hill just before dawn. He looked down at the constibulary and unconsciously patted Grism to signal a stop. The mare snorted in reply. Two quick spouts of steam left its nose, swirled, and disappeared into the air.

The complex consisted of a squat central station house made of stone and discolored plaster surrounded by a flimsy perimeter of outbuildings, among which Johan guessed he would find a latrine, a barrack, and quite possibly a small armory should he care enough to look closer. Like so much of the lower burg, the station had the look of a once proud and shiny thing made sad by years of neglect. He could almost imagine a smiling Burgomaster of yester-year cutting a ribbon at some long forgotten civic ceremony.

The suspect was likely being held in the station house. No time to waste--the faster he got this over with the faster he could leave this sad place. Johan clicked his teeth twice and tugged Grism's reigns, stepping the mare slowly down the hill towards the station.

Two listless officers in worn uniforms stood guard near the front entrance. One of them--a skinny sort who couldn't be more than fifteen--leaned in to say something to the other, then approached Johan as he dismounted and tied Grism to a nearby post.

"Mornin'" he said in his best officer's impression.

"Day to you," Johan said absently while rooting through his saddlebag.

"Brings ye in so early?" he heard the boy say as his fingers found his pen and ledger. He pulled them out and fastened the bag's straps before turned back to face the boy.

"I'm the Advocate," he said, "figured best not to waste any time, Circuit Judge'd be but a few days 'hind me."

The boy removed his cap and rang it in his hands. "Ahh," he said. "S'cuse me then Advocate, sir. Been a few years since we's had a proper 'ceedin." He paused, then added "don't know we's ever had one like this." His look said he was waiting for Johan to bite and ask a follow up question.

Johan said nothing.

Disappointment crossed the boy's face as he continued. "S'pose you'll be wantin'a speak to the Cap?"

"Eventually," Johan replied. "First I'd like to see the suspect."

"Ahh," the boy bobbed his head approvingly. "Course, tha makes sense. Gettin the measure of the oily vill first, look 'em in the eye." He looked up at Johan with expectant eyes.

"Something like that," Johan smiled weakly. "Can you take me to him?"

"Sure true can!" the boy beamed, appeased. "Holdin' the Snik in the cells 'neath the station."

"Show me," he said, falling in next to the young policeman as they walked past his bored companion and up the front steps to the station door. When they reached the door, he paused and added "they don't like that you know."

"Har?" the boy turned with a puzzled look.

"The Matth'ari," he continued. "They hate that word."

Though a less trained observer may not have noticed it, the boy's lips drew almost imperceptibly tighter, his color flushed slightly and his eyes darted briefly down to his feet. Johan's words had embarassed him. To his credit, he covered it well and quickly recovered his sunny disposition as he opened the station door, gesturing for Johan to follow. "My dah says the lot a them kin turns 'n spin. Says the town wunna be in this mess weren't fer them Sniks comin' in an puttin good fine folk outta work," he waved to a young girl working the front desk as they continued down the hall towards the back of the station.

Johan tipped his hat to the girl and nodded to another officer passing them as they walked. "Sure, I suppose there's a fair point in there, but their homes were destroyed and their cities were burned to ash. Might not seem fair, but folks gotta go somewhere. Still need coin and food in their bellies."

The boy stopped at the top of a dingy stairwell leading into the basement. A sooty gas lamp smoked on the landing below. "Well we dinna do nothin to em. Not right they gotta come here." He looked back at Johan, deadly serious. "Things was bad enough already."

Johan nodded sympathetically, then followed the boy down the stairs into the basement.

It was just like every other jail house basement. Lamps cast low grimy shadows at odd intervals down a hall of crete-

block and stone. Every third cell housed some rough looking brawler or twitchy comb-addict drying out from the night before. Most were sleeping or too drunk to notice as the two men passed. Those that did seemed content to ignore them. Johan's nose crinkled reflexively as the smell of dried sweat was briefly overwhelmed by the sharp tang of piss.

Another officer sat at a small table at the end of the hall, scribbling something on a sheet of parchment by candlelight. He didn't seem to notice them until they were standing over him.

"Nuk," he said without looking up.

"Hai Len," the boy responded, then cleared his throat. The scribbling guard looked up and seemed to notice Johan for the first time. "Irons sent ohr' an Advocate. Says there's to be real 'cedins ohr' all this."

The scribbler squinted beady eyes as he looked Johan up and down. He scoffed. "Don't see hows' its any the Irons' business. Clear as morn the Snick done them poor girls in. We kin handle our own Just here."

Johan met the man's beady gaze and considered arguing the point. The Iron Court wasn't particularly popular in the back country, folk tended to resent outsiders meddling in their affairs, especially when they felt they had little in common with those that showed up to mete out justice. In the end though, for all their blustering, most folk weren't really brave or foolish enough to do more than grumble when the Court came calling. Johan preferred a light touch of diplomacy, to let the locals know he sympathized and respected how they felt. Unfortunately, he had also met enough people like this man to know he'd be wasting his breath.

"Open the door."

The man held his gaze and rose from his chair, slowly and deliberately. He was taller than he had seemed sitting, taller than Johan by a head. As he rose, he made a point of standing too close and looking down at the Advocate. The man said nothing and made no further move to open the door.

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"Now."

The man looked over Johan's shoulder to the boy. Apparently not getting the response he wanted, he sighed, then turned and walked towards the cell door while slipping the key ring off his belt. Nuk stepped up beside Johan and gave him an embarassed shrug. Johan smiled and was about to respond, but turned back when he heard the groan of rusted metal and saw that Len had opened the cell door. The beady eyed officer held it open with one hand and gestured an exaggerated right this way sir with the other. Johan picked the officer's candle off the writing table as he passed it and entered the cell. The guard made a sound as if to protest, but said nothing.

Johan turned back to him. "I will require privacy for my interview. Please see that this end of the hallway is cleared. I will call when I am finished." The man's face was red with anger.

"C'mon Len," Nuk eased in next to the man and put a hand on his shoulder. "Less leave the Advocate to his business. Faster he's done, faster we gets our just for them girls." He seemed to say the last part louder so his words would carry to the prisoner in the cell. "Sides, dun know about you, but I wanna nother look at Enne. She's on desk this mornin'."

Len continued to stare at Johan. "Sure Nuk, let's go say hai." He held the Advocate's stare a moment longer, then turned and left. Johan watched the pair until they climbed the stairs at the far end of the hall.

"Have to say, that was an impressive bit of work there," a voice chuckled from the shadows of the cell. Johan held his candle out in front of him and took another step into the cramped cell. A squat wirey man was sitting on the floor against the far wall with his knees tucked up between his arms. His clothing was stained and threadbare. A wild salt and pepper mane gave him the appearance of a great wisp of dirty cotton. When he looked up, the smile he gave Johan moved past his mouth to reach the dirty crow's feet around his single flint grey eye. His other eye was swollen shut and surrounded by purpled bruising. "Glad somebody finally put that mistake in his place." He extended his hand. "Now be a good lad and help an old man up off his arse."

Johan stood over him, frowning. When the man saw Johan had no intention of helping him up, he pulled back his hand. "Suit yourself then."

"You realize you're the prime suspect in the disappearance and likely murder of several young girls who went missing shortly after you arrived in town."

"Seven, actually."

"You think this a game, Sir?"

The prisoner smiled up at him, though no hint of humor reached his eye. "Of course lad. The game is called Skin the Snik. It's important that I at least know the rules, rigged though they be."

"A clever Snik, apparently."

The prisoner tensed for the briefest moment, but it passed with his sigh. "Not clever enough to keep his damn fool nose out of other folks trouble, it seems." He covered his mouth to stifle a hacking cough.

Johan uncliped a small canteen from his belt and handed it to the man. After a sniff and a careful sip, the prisoner moved to hand it back. "My thanks."

Johan waved his hand dismissively. "Finish it, I'll refill it when I leave." The man saluted him with the canteen before upending it. Johan watched the man drink, rivulets beading down his unkempt beard. When he finished, Johan extended his hand. "What sort of trouble?"

The man cleared his throat then pulled himself up with Johan's help. "Guess I should've coughed earlier." He gestured over Johan's shoulder to the jailor's table.

Johan gave him a stern look. "If he comes back down and sees you sitting at his desk-"

The prisoner smirked, "I'll catch another beating, I'm sure. Worth it to give my sore arse a bit of a rest."

Johan stepped aside to let the prisoner pass, then followed him to the table and took the seat across from him. "I've alway found a touch of civility to be a more effective tactic."

"A lesson our friend Len could sorely use," the prisoner said as he took his seat. He shook the canteen at Johan and smiled. "Gnats with sugar, eh?"

"Something like that," Johan paused. "I never caught your name."

The prisoner eyed him thoughtfully, then used a small portion of the canteen's water to wash his hands. After wiping it dry on his pant leg, he extended his hand across the table to Johan. "Amill Van'Korgland," he said as Johan took his hand. He leaned back in his chair. "Apologies, probably should've led with that," he looked around, surveying the murky hallway. "Easy for a gentleman to forget himself in such a place," he grew quiet and for a brief moment, Johan saw a distant, haunted look in his eye. "No excuse though," he smiled. "And you are?"

"Advocate Tibre of the Iron Court."

The man leaned forward. "That fancy title come with a first name?"

"It does not."

"Pity," the prisoner took another sip from the canteen, then splashed some water on his face. "You'll have to forgive my ignorance. As folks are so fond of pointing out, I'm not from around here. Who exactly are you an advocate for?"

"Truth."

"Ahh," the prisoner frowned. "Pity."

"How's that?"

"Been my experience that thems that say they work for truth are the most dangerous sort of zealot."

"For a man facing murder charges, you're awfully free with your opinions."

The man smiled, "Way I figure, no harm in voicing 'em. You either came in with your mind made up about what happened - like the rest of these pokes - ready to make the pieces fit what you already know to be true-"

"Or?"

"Or you didn't."

"What if your glib tongue colored my opinion of you?"

"Then you'd just be proving my point."

Johan smiled, "Not necessarily. I may have come in with an open mind, but even the most objective investigator needs to take the measure of each witness they interview. Calling me a zealot doesn't exactly help your case."

"I take your point," the man said, raising an eyebrow. "Witness, eh? Thought I was a suspect."

"Aye, you're that too," Johan said, "though I learned long ago that the man in the cell is often the best at filling in the

holes in the official accounting of a thing."

"And what if I don't feel it in my best interest to confide in a man claiming to serve truth?"

Johan swept his open palm grandly around the murky piss-tart basement. "I think we both know where this ends for you if you go all tight lipped." He leaned forward and lowered his voice for effect. "Cooperating with my investigation may be your only shot at avoiding mob Just."

The man grimaced, "and what if you decide I'm guilty after all?"

Johan sighed, "I'll give you respect enough to tell it true. If my investigation leads me to that conclusion, then it leads me to that conclusion." He paused. "Though that seems to be your default position already if we let ol' Len and his friends make the call."

"True."

"Still, would be in your interest to cooperate. Worst case, I can ask the judge for leniency if no better."

"Such an inspiring speech you've given me. I can see the clouds parting already." He paused in thought. "Judge, hmm? Had me thinking you were judge, jury, and headsman."

Johan shook his head. "Hardly. The Iron Court sends round a Circuit Judge through these parts a few times a year, usually at the beginning and end of the season. They usually spend a few days in town at most, handling basic matters ike marriages, property disputes, the occassional open and shut criminal case. For more complicated matters, they sually send an advocate out first to interview witnesses, gather evidence, that sort of thing. This way, when the Judge omes through, they've already got an unbiased report on all the pertinents. Makes things easier."

"Do the locals still get to speak their part?"

"Yes," Johan smiled, "as does the accused. My report is merely another opinion for the Judge to weigh, albeit one typically afforded quite a bit of weight. Still, they're free to draw their own conclusions."

"What of the mob?"

"How do you mean?"

"What if the mob doesn't care for the Judge's decision and decides to string me up anyways?"

An almost wounded look crossed Johan's face. "The folk will respect the Judge's opinion. They must. The Iron Court is the law of the land, it would be a serious crime to ignore a Judge's order of acquittal."

The man eyed Johan, deadly serious. "You've not seen the way these folk look at us. We're less than human far as they

care to stretch it."

"Even if I think you guilty of the blackest crime, I promise you now, you'll have your process."

Amill leaned back, looking toward the cracked crete ceiling. After several moments, he closed his eyes and sighed. "I'll answer your questions. Just remember that you swore me true Just. Where I'm from, a man's word means something."

Johan set his ledger on the table and opened it. "I'm an officer of the Court. My professional integrity is everything to me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his pen.

The prisoner searched his eyes. Seemingly satisfied with Johan's response, he nodded. "Alright Advocate, what do you want to know?"

"Everything."